Creatormas
by hrhrionastar
Summary: Drabbles for peoplespalace, plus a few extra-Creatormas, over the years, Rahl and Mord'Sith centric  lots of Cara!
1. The One That Got Away

Prompt: mistletoe; Panis Rahl/OC, Zedd

**The One That Got Away**

The serving maid was laden down with gold-encrusted plates and goblets, dressed in well-mended rags—in spite of these misfortunes, she was surely the most beautiful girl in Creation.

"Let me get those for you," Panis Rahl purred, taking the majority of the dishes from her arms and setting them on a convenient inlaid sidetable.

"My Lord," she protested, "I must—"

Panis smiled at her, taking the last dishes away and tilting her chin upward between his fingers. He looked up significantly. "Mistletoe," he offered, by way of salve for her conscience. Not that she need worry about displeasing the head cook more than the Lord Rahl.

"My Lord," she gasped. Without further ado, he took her in his arms and kissed her. She was as delectable as he had imagined.

Unfortunately, just as Panis was thinking of dragging the girl to the nearest convenient side chamber, the mistletoe, precariously attached, drooped down and caught itself in Panis's hair.

He tried to shake it off, but the girl leaned closer to him, and he leaned back at the same moment, so that the girl's chest pressed against him, but the mistletoe scraped a path through his hair and jabbed itself into his eye.

"Ow!" bellowed Panis. The girl ran away in fright, quite forgetting her dishes—

Later, when Zedd had seen to his eye, Panis said wrathfully, "Henceforth, mistletoe will be banned from D'Hara! Never, never again—"

Zedd was only relieved that Panis's hurt pride hadn't made him ban Creatormas. Mistletoe was really only a small sacrifice—comparatively speaking.


	2. Peace on Earth

Prompt: Peace on earth and good will to men

**Peace on Earth…**

"You don't understand!" the man cried. "You can't do this to me!"

"Someone shut him up…" complained Triana. She and Garen dragged the man, who was a priest in the retinue of Lord Naft of the Northern reaches, and thus attired in a huge fur cloak, toward the dungeons.

Lord Naft had insulted Lord Rahl terribly, but, as all his Mord'Sith knew well, Lord Rahl wasn't ready to deal with his insolence properly. So, the priest would suffer for it.

Cara told herself it didn't signify, but the truth was that Lord Naft annoyed her. If only Lord Rahl would let her train _him_…

"This is feeble sport," said Denna, critically surveying their captive. "Look at him—What's-Her-Name, the new girl, could break _him_."

"Please!" Lord Naft's priest begged.

"I don't know," protested Dahlia, "What's-Her-Name only started her training yesterday."

"Exactly," Denna said sharply.

"This is our Creatormas gift for Lord Rahl," Cara said reprovingly. "You should show proper respect."

Denna rolled her eyes. "Lord Rahl's pet," she said contemptuously—but they all knew she was jealous.

Cara stepped menacingly forward—she always got cranky at Creatormas—

"Creatormas!" said the priest, as one grasping at straws. "Is a time for peace on earth—" Garen kicked him viciously, but he valiantly continued—"and good will toward men!"

The five Mord'Sith stared at him blankly for a long moment. Then Cara started to laugh.

Denna gasped and laughed until she cried—Cara hung onto Denna's shoulder for support—Triana said, between guffaws, "Happy Creatormas!"

Dahlia hit the priest over the head with her agiel, knocking him unconscious—"before he kills us all!" she wheezed, hysterically.

"To die laughing…" Garen mused, much struck.

"Good will—" gasped Cara. Unaccountable tears pricked her eyelids, and she buried her face in Denna's shoulder.

Happy Creatormas, indeed.


	3. Little Deaths

Prompt: Saint Nick

**Little Deaths**

Dahlia's mother used to talk about Saint Nick. How he would come and leave presents for good little girls, on Creatormas Eve.

It was the Creatormas before she was taken that Dahlia finally accused her mother of lying to her: everyone knew there was no such thing as Saint Nick. If he'd ever lived at all, he was long since in the Underworld.

And Dahlia's mother had sighed, and nodded, and explained that, even though Saint Nick didn't visit every house, didn't leave presents, he still lived on, because everyone who believed honored Saint Nick's spirit. They gave and gave, trying to bring a little joy into the hearts of their friends and neighbors, on Creatormas.

Not every lesson so internalized could be broken out of Dahlia.

Thus it was that she laid the little bottles of salve on the empty beds of each of her roommates. She longed to mark Cara's out as special somehow—a ribbon, perhaps. But Saint Nick was supposed to be anonymous, so she left it as it was.

Salve for the skin—maybe salve for the heart.

"What are you doing?" the voice was high and incredulous. Dahlia whipped around, braid swinging, to face Denna. "Are those—are those Creatormas gifts?"

Dahlia glared, mind racing. How to deny everything—?

"How sweet," Denna said, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Our little bitch. Did your mistress teach you this trick, puppy?"

Dahlia launched herself at Denna, too angry even to reach for her agiels, resorting to her fingernails—scraping blood from that perfect, golden face—

"This bitch bites," she said, and suited action to word—

Denna fought back, of course, and Dahlia won, finally drawing her agiels and beating Denna to within an inch of her life—

But it didn't matter. The damage was done: Dahlia never left Creatormas gifts again.

Saint Nick—hah. A myth for children.

Dahlia had no time for such nonsense.


	4. Open Your Eyes

Prompt: He sees you when you're sleeping

**Open Your Eyes**

Your hair is loose, golden on his pillow. He lies beside you, one arm carelessly thrown over your chest. In sleep, you look happy. Calm.

Better than when you spar with me, or even your beautiful bruises, after a fight or a dance—you and me: we've never needed music.

I would never tell you this, but you look better this way—no braid, no leathers, no me hanging on your every word. Natural.

And _him_—well do I know that never can I compete with your devotion to him. It's the same with me—a matter of duty.

For you, perhaps it's more than that. After all,_ he_ sees you when you're sleeping.

You stir, eyes open—green fire. Your eyes make me yearn for the Underworld. "Dahlia? What is it?"

"Come," is all I say—all I need say. Lord Rahl sees you when you're sleeping—but I know when you're awake, Cara mia.


	5. Silver Bells

Prompt: Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, silver bells

**Silver Bells**

"You know you deserve this pain, don't you, Denna?" Lord Rahl whispers, circling her.

Denna doesn't try to follow him with her eyes—she feels him, like a dragon, breath like fire on her back…like a monster.

Just like her, as the Seeker would doubtless say. Denna wants to laugh, thinking of him. If he thinks he has escaped her, he will learn his mistake. She's in his blood, now.

Denna's eyes open, senses struggling to be alert. She is exhausted. But Lord Rahl is very, very good at this; she won't sleep until he lets her.

Cara suddenly appears before Denna's bleary eyes. Her face is blank, impassive—but she betrays herself in the tilt of her hips, the curve of her throat…Denna watches her watch Lord Rahl.

And then Cara lifts the whip.

Confusion flits across Denna's mind a second before the whip flits across her torso, leaving a long red welt on her stomach. But that's not all—Denna feels the bite of a thousand tiny knives, each a pinch of pain as sharp as a dagger—

And hears the soft jangling of a thousand tiny bells.

Denna's eyes fly wide in shock—Cara ignores her, her lack of expression a statement in and of itself.

But Lord Rahl won't stop talking. He's in front of Denna again, touching his lips with one finger. Denna knows that look—his cold eyes make her think of the Keeper.

"They say, every time a bell rings, a nightwisp is born," Lord Rahl drawls. "Imagine how pleased the Creator must be."

Denna does imagine the Creator, then—a beautiful woman in a white dress (not the Mother Confessor) looking down on this scene—and wrinkling her nose in disgust.

Now Lord Rahl is gripping her chin. "Why, Denna?" he says, all faux-sadly. "Why do you make do this?"

Denna knows better than to answer. With detached interest, she notices that the bells on Cara's whip are silver. Pretty.

Lord Rahl steps back, his eyes glowing with hidden promise.

Cara lets the whip curl around her feet—the bells jingle, and Denna puts together what she felt and what she heard—the bells have tiny blades at their center. Pretty on the outside, sharp on the inside.

Like us, she thinks.

Cara's fingers are gentle. Her lips are soft, against Denna's. Denna shuts her eyes. Someday, Cara will pay for this.

Still…deep down, Denna knows why Cara is Lord Rahl's favorite.

"Why bells?" she asks. She shouldn't speak, but she wants to know.

At that, Cara actually smirks, just for Denna. "'Tis the season," Cara whispers.

That's right, it's Creatormas, Denna realizes—

And Lord Rahl is at her back again, breathing on her neck, hair disturbed and faintly tickling her skin.

Cara's back to expressionless—but Denna remembers worse holidays than this one.


	6. The Bratty Ghost

Prompt: Cookies and milk

**The Bratty Ghost**

"Can I have a cookie?" the little girl asked plaintively.

Darken Rahl turned from his melancholy contemplation of the only edible food apparently left in his Palace kitchens, this close to Creatormas—stale whitenut cookies.

"Who are you?" he asked, sharply. Little girls did not tend to address him so familiarly—or at least, not for long. Could she be an escapee from the Palace's Mord'Sith Headquarters? But no—no one (except his pestilential little brother, the Seeker) escaped the Mord'Sith.

Now that he looked at her, he saw there was definitely something odd about the little girl. She looked no older than six or seven (the age, he recalled with a pang, that Cara's son would be, had Darken let him live), but her hair was exquisitely arranged and her dress was in the ornate style of hundreds of years ago.

"The Lady Lucasta," the little girl said, curtsying. "And you?"

Darken narrowed his eyes. Lucasta—the name rang a bell. But—impossible! He had never believed that old superstition…

Once, so the story went, the Rahl bloodline had included daughters, as well as sons. But then came the death of little Lucasta Rahl. The stories varied on how she had died; some said her father had poisoned her, others that her brother had stabbed her, jealous of the attention she received everywhere, as the little princess. Still others claimed she drowned in a watery grave.

But two things all the different version of the legend agreed upon: first, that it had been one of her own blood who had murdered Lucasta, and second, that in so doing they had unleashed a terrible curse on the whole Rahl line, until such a time that another powerfully gifted daughter like Lucasta should be born to them.

But Darken Rahl didn't believe in curses—or at least, none not of his own making. Thoughtfully, he took a bite of one of the stale cookies, and almost choked on its dryness.

"Have some milk," Lucasta suggested helpfully. As she danced to the icebox, Darken remembered what his old nurse had told him, before Father found her comforting a teary Darken and sent her away: "They say her spirit walks, you know. Oh yes, bound to this place—to those of her own blood, the descendants of her betrayers. Her murderers."

And now—here she was. Nurse had been right—unless this was all some fevered dream, brought on by the strain of hunting for the Seeker and the Boxes of Orden.

His eyes narrowed—the Lady Lucasta Rahl had been dead for more centuries than he cared to count. How did she imagine she was going to pick up the milk?

She was back, easily settling on the chair across from Darken. "Why won't you give me a cookie?" she wailed. "I want a cookie!"

Darken leaned back, watching her. "No milk, huh?" he said sardonically.

She pouted. "You're mean!" she yelled, and then she shimmered, and disappeared, with a flash of images that, had Darken not been inured to blood, death, and gore from the dreams the Keeper sent him—and, of course, even more personal experience—would, at the very least, have destroyed his appetite.

As it was, he bit into another cookie, turning the experience over in his mind, and wondering if he would have that milk, after all.

He almost choked again when he remembered the last part of the legend: that Lucasta Rahl's spirit only appeared to those of the Rahl bloodline right before they were about to die.


	7. FootLoose and Stocking Free

Prompt: stockings

**Foot-Loose and Stocking-Free**

Cara breathed a sigh of relief, as she slipped off her boots. Instead of immediately shedding her leathers as well, she wriggled her toes on the bank of the lake, reveling in the freedom from her tight boots.

"Cara!" Kahlan exclaimed from the pool. Modestly, she had dragged her wet hair forward so that it obscured her chest from Cara's view. A pity.

Cara looked up enquiringly, reaching around to her back to begin loosening her laces.

"Your feet!" Kahlan swam closer, until she was at the bank of the stream. "They look terrible—don't you have any stockings?"

Cara examined her feet. It was true that they were bloody and bruised, but she, personally, would not have said they looked _terrible_. Didn't Kahlan like her feet?

"Mord'Sith don't wear stockings," she said repressively.

"Does that mean you won't let me wash your feet?" Kahlan pouted. "Cara, really—"

Cara took a breath, suddenly hot in her leathers. "You may," she allowed graciously, "wash my feet." Her voice was low and breathy—and Cara wondered how best she might make the interesting disclosure to Kahlan that Mord'Sith didn't wear underwear, either.


	8. A Mord'Sith Holiday Song

Prompt: the 12th day of Christmas

**A Mord'Sith Holiday Song**

"On the twelfth day of Creatormas, my true love gave to me, twelve agiels agieling, eleven slaves slaving, ten chains a-slinking, nine whores dancing, eight Sisters scrubbing, seven tongues a-licking, six heels a-clicking, five trained pets, four new hickeys, three fresh whips, two black eyes, and the Lord Rahl in a warm bath!" Cara finished the song triumphantly, stirring the evening stew—and only then looked around, something alerting her to others' presence.

Kahlan and Zedd stood stock still, staring at her in horror. Cara felt a flush start in her cheeks, but resolutely took a breath; she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was only a _song_, for the Creator's sake—you'd think she'd just tortured someone in front of them.

Richard was watching, too, eyebrows quirked upward. But he didn't look horrified—in point of fact, he was looking rather pointedly at Kahlan.

"You—" Kahlan said, and then stopped. Cara waited, with an outward show of indifference, while Kahlan struggled with herself. Then Kahlan smiled, touched Cara's arm, and said gently, "you have a lovely singing voice."

"So, what's for dinner?" Zedd asked bracingly, sitting down on a convenient log.

"Oh, no—Kahlan, you let Cara cook?" Richard asked.

Cara glared at him. Of course, _now_ he was horrified.

Richard dipped a spoon into Cara's stew and tasted it. Then he made a face. "Don't expect any sympathy from me," Cara told him sternly. "This was all your idea."

Teaching her to cook had been Richard's idea—and so had treating her like she belonged with his friends. Every so often, she would do something that reminded Kahlan and Zedd of her past, and they would be horrified, disgusted, disapproving…

It was strange, Cara thought, how easily Richard, for all he had never even heard the name Lord Rahl or Mord'Sith before he named the Seeker, understood all that.

Almost Creatormas, and Cara had one thing she was very thankful for—Richard's comprehension. Without that, this quest, this band of perfect heroes, would surely drive her insane.

"And the Lord Rahl in a warm bath…" she sang softly, almost under her breath.

Richard pretended he hadn't heard, but she saw the back of his neck flush. Cara smirked.


	9. Dear Sister

Prompt: upon a midnight clear

**Dear Sister**

The summons came at once—a broken instant, fracturing endless time. When he was alive, Darken Rahl never realized how long time was. How interminable.

The summons was a relief, although he didn't relish the thought of being forced to inspire yet more Sisters of the Dark to kill the Mother Confessor. They'd been so unsuccessful so far, he was starting to doubt if he would ever see Kahlan again.

It came upon a midnight clear, he saw when he arrived. The small fire burned higher and brighter and, briefly, greener with his arrival.

But the face blinking up at him belonged to no Sister of the Dark.

"My dear sister…" Darken purred, although he had no idea why she had summoned him. It didn't pay to act surprised.

"What are you doing here?" Jennsen demanded. "You're dead!"

"Your grasp of the obvious has always been masterly," Darken drawled. "I take it you didn't summon me—or not purposely, anyway," he added, noting the herb cocktail she'd apparently thrown in the fire. It was making his robes look particularly seasonal. "So what, in the Underworld, are _you_ doing here? "

Jennsen flushed. "I came to pray," she said, in a small voice. "Children are starving, their parents are banelings—the Creator must hear me. Especially now."

"Creatormas is over, my dear Jennsen," Darken pointed out. "And so you decided to pray. Alone. At midnight. In a dark wood far from any village." He snorted. "I have half a mind to send a few banelings after you myself, you little idiot!"

She flinched.

"Why isn't Richard out here, protecting his dear baby sister?" Darken asked, frowning. It seemed unlike his brother's heroic nature to let Jennsen wander off alone. "Or did you give him the slip?"

Jennsen flushed, and raised her chin. "I haven't seen Richard since I gave him the Boxes of Orden," she said.

Darken stared. So Richard hadn't come running to reunite with his sister? Too busy _not _sleeping with the Mother Confessor, apparently.

"And you can go rot in the Underworld for all I care," Jennsen said crossly, getting up and brushing off her skirts. "You've been an even worse brother than Richard."

She stormed off, but Darken remained, the flames gently and ineffectually licking his robes. Why had she been able to summon him? It required magic, and Jennsen had none.

Had Darken followed the imprint of her thoughts back to the Land of the Living? Was he that desperate for companionship?

And what did she mean, he was a worse brother than Richard?


	10. Baby's First Creatormas

Prompt: a white Christmas

**Baby's First Creatormas**

The Lady Kahlan Rahl wasn't having a very good day. She held her four-month-old son's head against her breast, and tried to let the soft sounds of his breastfeeding calm her.

Her thoughts were chaotic, fear and anger making her tremble. Last night—

Darken's hands on her (once more trim) waist, his frankly admiring stare—"Should we not think about giving little Nicholas a baby sister?"

Kahlan's heart had been in her throat—wild hope, that Richard might yet have a female Confessor to bring him back to her, and anticipation, at the thought of no longer sleeping alone—quickly chased by horror at herself, to be thinking she and _Darken Rahl_ might have a normal family—disgust, that she should want him back—

She'd slapped him; not hard enough, Kahlan rather suspected.

Worst of all was her guilt—already, to have committed the unpardonable sin of allowing a male Confessor to live—

To let Richard's memory be lost whilst she was in Darken's embraces—

Kahlan brushed away tears, rocking herself and Nicholas in her chair. She was a fool.

"Still angry with me?" Darken asked curiously, opening the door without ceremony.

Kahlan glared at him. How he could even ask her such a question—

Darken strolled to the window, and peered out, looking critically at the casement. "This needs to be fixed; if only there were a competent carpenter in all D'Hara—"

"How dare you—" Kahlan said furiously, then bit her lip as Nicholas pulled away from her to loudly express his displeasure at her tension.

"Hush," Darken told her severely, and Kahlan's head swam—what she wouldn't give for the release of her power—"look."

He took Nicholas from her, and then watched appreciatively as Kahlan pulled up her bodice. She glared, thinking Richard would never have been so disrespectful, and then remembering the time he'd come upon her bathing—

She swallowed tears at the memory. Darken grasped her elbow and pulled her roughly to her feet, and to the window.

"Take your hands off me!" Kahlan said, in a venomous whisper.

"Kahlan. Look," he commanded.

Outside, all was white. Swirling snow still fell around the palace, making Kahlan glad for the cozy fire in her room. It was beautiful, but Kahlan was in no mood for the beauties of nature.

"You—" she said, turning away from the window.

But Darken looked down at her with unusual tenderness (he really did look charmingly domestic, with Nicholas in his arms), and _asked_, not ordered, "Kahlan. It's Nicholas's first Creatormas. It's snowing, which almost never happens in D'Hara. Can't we cry truce, for once?"

"I—" Kahlan took a breath. But Darken was right. This was no time for discord. "A white Creatormas," she said wonderingly. And she took refuge in staring out the window at the cold snow, instead of meeting the question in Darken's unexpectedly warm eyes.

A truce—just for the holiday. For Nicholas. Surely that was only right.


	11. Making Nice

Prompt: Naughty or Nice

**Making Nice**

"What should we get Lord Rahl for Creatormas?" Berdine asked brightly.

"The beaten and broken body of the leader of the Northern dissenters?" Rikka suggested. "A dancing girl from the heart of the Southlands?"

"It's a little last-minute," objected Raina.

"Try for something a little less exotic," said First Mistress Cara drily. Rikka, Berdine, and Raina all jumped. They weren't expecting their First Mistress—a woman they all held in some awe, and also some disapproval.

It was common knowledge that she had abandoned Lord Rahl (the previous Lord Rahl) when he needed her most. Besides, the new Lord Rahl was so…

"Richard would prefer a kitten stuck in a tree," said First Mistress Cara, with no trace of sarcasm.

Rikka, Berdine, and Raina exchanged looks. The new Lord Rahl was so _vanilla_.

"Yes, Mistress," said Berdine. "But—well—"

"No dancing girls is one thing," Rikka agreed; Raina sighed regretfully. "But surely even Lord Rahl couldn't object to our training the Northern traitor for him?"

Raina and Berdine looked hopefully at First Mistress Cara, too.

"You know Richard is still in peace negotiations with the Northerners," First Mistress Cara sighed regretfully. Then she seemed to recollect her companions, and said sternly, "This year, why don't you all try to be extra _nice_ to Lord and Lady Rahl," And she swept away, no doubt to babysit the heir.

Rikka made a noise of disgust, and left. "_Nice,"_ she could be heard muttering down the corridor.

"I don't know…" whispered Berdine, stroking Raina's cheek. "I think I'd rather be…"

"Naughty," finished Raina, and kissed her.

The new Lord Rahl might be much too _nice_, but his domestic bliss had spread through the palace—maybe there was something to be said for peace and love after all.


	12. Mord'Sith Anonymous

Prompt: Eggnog

**Mord'Sith Anonymous**

"Drink?" Cara asked.

"Sure," said Raina eagerly, holding out her cup. She wrinkled her nose, as the thick liquid slopped into her glass. "What _is _that?" she complained.

"Eggnog," Cara smiled innocently. "It's seasonal."

"It's _gross_, you mean," Rikka said, already seated between Berdine and Nyda. "You aren't going to tell me our new Lord Rahl thinks alcohol is as sinful as torturing children, I hope?"

"It's not as bad as that," Cara laughed. (She was only so sanguine because Richard had, to her certain knowledge, drank an entire jug of ale the night before his coronation.)

"So…whose turn is it?" Berdine asked, nervously, once they were all seated in a circle, glasses of undrunk eggnog on their knees.

"Let's see…" Cara said, loving this. As First Mistress, she could postpone her own turn indefinitely. "Galina?"

Galina flushed. "Well, I—what exactly—I don't know—"

"Oh, come on," Rikka said, rolling her eyes. "Last week at our Mord'Sith Anonymous meeting, I told everyone about the time Lord Rahl—sorry, Darken Rahl—Lord Darken?—was so angry he chained me in the dungeons, with rats, and left me there for days, before he came in and tortured me for hours—and then he was so pleased with my stamina (I didn't scream once) that he took me to his bed, as a reward. We were there for three days _straight_."

Cara's eyes narrowed. Rikka seemed a little too pleased with herself—if she thought that Darken Rahl had ever thought of her as more than a—a _convenience_—

Galina took a breath. "I know we're supposed to talk about what horrible things Darken Rahl did to us, and made us do, so we can get past it and be useful members of society—and of course I'll do whatever Lord Rahl requires, even babysit those little Confessor brats—"

At this, Cara glared. "Speak of the Mother Confessor—and her offspring—with respect," she said sternly. Too late, she remembered it was _Richard_'s dignity she was supposed to be upholding.

"Yes, First Mistress," Galina said quickly, "But—well—Lord Rahl punished me, too, and of course I was ever so sorry for disappointing him—but—the way he could wield an agiel—the way his hair swooshed over his shoulders—that thing he always did, grabbing your chin—" She sighed breathily. "The truth is, I kind of—miss it."

Galina stopped talking and looked as though she was waiting for the abuse and recriminations—if Kahlan had been there, she would have supplied it—but the Mord'Sith assembled were all nodding.

"Me too…"

"Darken Rahl was _my _idea of a real Lord…"

"Do you remember the time there was an assassin, and he had to run outside naked…?"

Cara sighed, wishing she didn't know what they were talking about. Much as she loved and respected Richard, sometimes, she couldn't help missing the old days…

"Hello all," Richard said, from the doorway. He looked windswept—probably just come from having a snowball fight with Kahlan and the girls. "What'd I miss?"

The Mord'Sith looked down at the floor and tried not to fidget, but Richard was oblivious. "Ooh! Eggnog?"


	13. The Creatormas Tree

Prompt: Christmas tree

**The Creatormas Tree**

"So I was thinking—oh, do be careful!" Jennsen interrupted herself, as Richard reached further along the branch than was wise and nearly lost his balance.

Recovering, he inched forward once more, clicking his tongue to Jennsen's disgruntled kitten, Mordy the Second.

If she hadn't been so terrified for both Richard and Mordy, Jennsen was sure she would have laughed, for Richard, the Seeker of Truth, and now the great Lord Rahl, looked ridiculous.

"Anyway," Jennsen said, in a valiant effort to return to the topic at hand, "I know he was very wicked, but he is _family_, after all, and don't you think—well, that we should invite Darken for Creatormas?"

"No," Richard said shortly, "Kahlan wouldn't like it."

Jennsen subsided into silence, much struck by this flaw in her plan. Richard always deferred to his Lady Rahl in everything. It was quite vexing.

As she watched Richard's attempts to beguile Mordy the Second into coming within his reach, Jennsen thought how wrong it was that their brother, no matter what his past, should be excluded at Creatormas—a time for family.

At last Richard managed to rescue Mordy, and Jennsen, watching him climb down, was much struck by the green leaves set beside his red D'Haran uniform. "Oh, how festive!" she exclaimed. "Richard, you look just like a Creatormas advertisement! The tree—a Creatormas tree!"

Richard raised his eyebrows and handed her Mordy, whom she clutched to her chest. His claws raked her bodice when she threw her free arm around the tree, but luckily it was leather.

There at least one couldn't fault Kahlan's taste; Jennsen liked the practical leather dress Kahlan had given her for an early Creatormas present.

If only Jennsen's provoking sister-in-law could be brought to see that leaving Darken all alone for Creatormas was a crime on the level with many he had supposedly committed.

"A Creatormas tree," Richard mused, "I must show it to the girls."

Jennsen approved this plan—she was very fond of her nieces. "You should issue a proclamation—make a new tradition! The Creatormas tree!" she said ecstatically, and carefully didn't mention the other new tradition Richard might start—surely he was the first Lord Rahl to assume the title when his predecessor still lived.

Jennsen was determined that this should be a happy Creatormas for the whole family—every last member of it. "You'd like dear Darken to join us, wouldn't you, Mordy?" she murmured, and Mordy the Second hissed at her.


	14. First Chestnut

Prompt: Chestnuts roasting over an open fire

**First Chestnut**

"Are you still convinced the Northerners can be brought round, my boy?" Zedd asked, as he and Richard strolled down the hall of the People's Palace.

"Absolutely," Richard said, with the naïve assurance his friends and family had come to accept. "In fact, I invited Lord Naft to share our Creatormas feast."

At this point, Zedd felt compelled to protest. "Richard, it's your first year as Lord Rahl," he objected, "are you sure it's wise to mix delicate negotiations with—with whatever your subjects will deem an appropriate celebration?"

"What are you saying? You think the D'Harans won't like it?" Richard asked, still not sounding particularly alarmed. At that point, they entered the great hall, where Kahlan, Cara, Jennsen, Benjamin, and the children were gathered around a large fire set in a circle of stones in the center of the floor.

"No," Zedd said, "only that certain traditions—" but the rest of his warning was doomed to remain unheard; Richard had been mobbed by his daughters, little Dennee hugging one leg and Tari the other, while Rega, the baby, crawled belatedly forward. Kahlan picked up Rega, and she and Richard exchanged an awkward but enthusiastic kiss over the heads of their daughters.

"Come, try the first chestnut, Lord Rahl," Cara said pointedly, and everyone watched as she skewered a chestnut from above the open flames and held it out to Richard.

Gamely, he took it off the spear, burning his fingers, and bit into it. There was respectful silence as he chewed, only broken by a quickly hushed wail from Cara and Benjamin's baby daughter, Gracie.

"'S good," Richard said at last, swallowing and offering the rest of his chestnut to Kahlan.

"Lord Rahl is pleased!" Benjamin cried, and the onlookers—Mord'Sith, soldiers, and miscellaneous servants and courtiers, in addition to the family—cheered. Everyone crowded around the fire to get the roasted chestnuts.

Zedd happily accepted one from little Dennee's sticky fingers. "Happy Creatormas, Grandfather!" she told him.

"See, Zedd?" Richard laughed. "If all the D'Haran traditions are as innocuous as this one, you have nothing to worry about!"

Richard went back to feeding Kahlan bits of chestnut, but Zedd couldn't be so sanguine. Who knew what other, less acceptable traditions might be in store? The D'Harans were unpredictable.


	15. Tradition

Prompt: Winter Solstice

**Tradition**

The three of them gathered on the shortest night of the year.

The celebration would be later—the whole family, Kahlan glaring at Darken, Zedd glaring at Darken, Cara carefully not looking at Darken…the children running around and opening their Creatormas gifts.

But the solstice was just for the three of them.

They didn't speak; Jennsen cradled her candle, careful lest the wind snuff it out.

"We are here tonight to pay our respects to She who created us all," Darken intoned seriously. _Suck-up_, Jennsen thought.

"And to those who came before us," Richard said. His candle made shadows dance across his face.

_Mother_, Jennsen thought, remembering…the Keeper might've been defeated, but the deaths in their past remained with Jennsen.

Creatormas was a time of joy—the birth of the first of the Creator's children.

But tonight, the Rahl siblings mourned for all they had lost.

Richard blew out his candle, and Jennsen and Darken followed suit. They sat in front of their small, smoldering fire, each alone with their own prayers.

Jennsen knew Richard's would be full of thanks and hopes for his wife and children—their safety, their happiness…Darken's would be thinly veiled pleas to be admitted into the select group of the Creator's favorites.

Jennsen didn't know what to pray for—she felt safe, here, seated between her brothers. A real family, at last.

She had much to be grateful for.


End file.
